


Vanishing Point

by PaxVobis



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: But Not Very Good, Car Accidents, Charles POV, Emotional Stagnation, General Klokateer Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, M/M, Minor Injuries, One Shot, Sad Ending, Scars, Season/Series 04, Shock, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 15:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: “I’m not answering that.  Talk to me when you’re sober.”





	Vanishing Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sneks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneks/gifts).



There was a crash that night involving Pickles, the idiot having split off from the rest of the band to pursue something or other into the streets on the Murdercycle.  Offdensen was used to that – used to having to turf him out of jail, or out of hospital, but this time the drummer had barely gotten two blocks from the record function before the ambulance hit him, and everyone had heard the sirens and the smash from the smoking area.

That’s right: hit by an ambulance.  Charles had to hand it to him, he was getting efficient in his tragedies.  No harm done, ultimately; Charles attended the scene to some very confused paramedics, the twisted bike and Pickles sat on a curb, scratched up and in shock with a blanket around his shoulders, the flashing blue and red lights spinning on top of the ambulance playing havoc with his trip, but otherwise unharmed.  Soon he was swamped by the klokateers Charles had brought from the function, trying to ground him with stupid psych exercises like asking him his name, and Charles was speaking to the ambulance drivers.  One of them was pretty impressed he’d hit Pickles the Drummer from Dethklok.  He’d gotten his signature.  Man!  What a night.

Somewhere in the background, a tantrum was happening.  Charles looked over the paramedic’s shoulder to see Pickles flailing and kicking at the klokateers as they stepped out of reach of his fists.  Charles could hear that whinge, clawing at his still-tipsy consciousness (he could never seem to say no to the complimentary champagne at these record things), and pinched his nose to scare the headache back into his rapidly sobering skull.  When he looked up again, a klokateer was being choked.

_I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU. I DON’T WANT TO BE GROUNDED.  I WANT MY MANAGER.  Y’ERE?  I WANT TO TALK TO MY MMAAAAANAGER!!!_

Oh boy.  Charles looked to the paramedics one by one, smiled genially, and pushed past them.  “Excuse me, sir, ma’am.  One second,” he said, and crossed to Pickles, the drummer releasing his employee with a bright smile as he saw Offdensen come over to him before it instantly soured to a nasty scowl.

“TOOK YER _FUCKIN_ TIME.”

“You wanted me, Pickles.”

The face that eyeballed him from inside the blanket was badly marked with bloody grazes, but Charles knew it would heal up in a day or two.  In fact, the closer they came, the more forced urgency the Black Klok spoke to him with, the more the boys healed with alarming speed.  Something that had taken months took weeks, something that had left scars left clear skin.  Haunting for an outsider, and an omen of worse things to come.  They hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t commented on it if they had.

Pickles just glared at him, then gave a snort so forceful it jerked his head as a watery, blood-streaked glob of mucus ejected itself and stuck to his top lip.  Charles leaned over to give him more concentrated attention, leaning his hands on his thighs to hear what the drummer had to say.  The very act folded Pickles’ bluff, as Charles had known it would; he lowered his head slightly, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders, and diverted his eyes.

“Ohhh.  Naw.  Uh.  Sorry, Charlie,” he mumbled, looking at the pavement, and Charles raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry for what?”  But the way he said it made it sound like there was something to apologise for.  There was, of course.  But that wasn’t how he’d meant it.

“Crashin’ the bike.  Ruinin’ your night.”  Pickles sniffed, but failed to draw the glob back into his nostril, snared as it was on his coarse moustache.  Charles frowned at him, dropping to a crouch at the drummer’s level rather than haunting over him, and Pickles made dizzy, waning eye contact around whatever narcotic world spun in his brain, clasping the blanket under his chin pathetically.

“Ah.  There’s nothing to, ah, be sorry for.  This is my job,” said Charles calmly, and he withdrew his handkerchief from his top pocket, unfolding it with a flick of his wrist.  Pickles followed it with his gaze, knowing where this was going and hating it, and he grimaced away as Charles pushed the white cotton against his lip and wiped at the mess, having to chase the drummer’s face but forceful enough that he succeeded all the same. 

Once his lip was clean, Charles folded the soiled part of the handkerchief in on itself and away into the cotton, regarding Pickles over his glasses – but the drummer was taken in by his hands, the action of folding, which for Charles was so precise and meticulous.  For all his observations on the boys as Doomsday drew closer, Charles had been blind to his own intensifying traits, his sharpness, his paranoia, his designs narrowing with an acute, searing edge.  It had not passed by Pickles that the suits had changed to black, that they were cut better – that _Charles_ was cut better. 

But nor had it gone unrecognised how dependant he was letting them be, _making_ them be, enabling and feeding off their tendency to surrender control to him.  It was starting to go too far, but Pickles didn’t know how to stop it.  Drugged up further, became more idiot and vulnerable.  If even his chaos couldn’t unbalance Charles, then what power did he have over the man?  None.  Fucking none.  Fucking...

Charles made to stand, the asphalt grinding under the heels of his dress shoes, when Pickles reached for him; his green eyes like coiled snakes, narrowed, spun in the flashing light as he grabbed the arm of Charles’ suit and kept him down, then took the manager’s cheekbone in a rough pinch with his other hand, pulling Charles’ face by the pinched skin towards him viciously.  Charles winced, showing his teeth, but Pickles had already released him, sitting back on the pavement.

“Why’dya cover it up?” he spat in disgust, glaring at Charles as the manager drew back, touching at his cheek lightly with his fingertips.  It felt strange to be touched, like Pickles’ fingers had been exaggerated – hot and damp with sweat, and like he could feel them still lingering there.

“Cover what?” he asked, though he knew full well, and Pickles sneered at him.

“Your scar, _douchebag_.”  The drummer held up his fingers to shame Charles with the masking cream that had been used to blend out the scar, that he had felt waxy on the manager’s cheekbone, but Charles just regarded them, not a sign of inner turmoil or... or _anything_ on his blank face.

“Mm.  Pickles,” Charles hummed, and readjusted his glasses, and Pickles’ confidence hollowed as he seemed about to say something profound – but the manager just looked him in the eye and pressed the soiled handkerchief into his upheld fingers, the drummer’s hand wrapping around it automatically.  “I’m not answering that.  Talk to me when you’re sober.”

Pickles huffed, drawing the blanket around his shoulders again.  “Fat chance of that happenin',” he muttered, but he suspected Charles already knew that.  That’s why he'd said it.  The manager stood, towering over him, and took brief delight in looming before he touched his cheek again, as if he could brush off the ghost of the drummer’s fingertips, still burning there.

“And it’s the, ah.  The other side, my scar.  For the record,” he remarked quietly, and then turned away, leaving the drummer to cover his face in wretched despair.

**Author's Note:**

> In response to a tumblr prompt - "Let me see your scars", Charles/Pickles. Thank you for reading! Kudos and/or comment if there was something you liked.


End file.
